Flames danced round Kefka’s fingertips, demon tongues licking pale flesh. The unnatural crackle, the stink of sulphur, made him smile like a child with a butterfly.

His butterflies were men, pinned to brick with glittering spears of ice. The farmlands burned as Kefka laughed, the town turned to nothing but blackened, crumbling shells; matchstick children to feed loathsome magic. Kefka’s is an easy type of hate, unnerving, jovial. The real meaning of love to hate.

Leo went to the window, lifted heavy drapes aside and threw creaking shutters open. The stars above twinkled and glinted like the lights of Vector.